We're one day closer to summer

It's one thing not to get out of the house if you have a choice. It's another to be cooped up by 10 inches of snow and can't leave, especially if there's no football on the tube, like Saturday.

Around noon, without having set foot in the winter wonderland, my breathing was labored and intense. Cabin fever had me staring at the mirror. The walls were closing in and the snow was still coming down.

I was about to do a Jack Nicholson from "The Shining." I was 30 minutes away from grabbing an ax from the garage, smashing in the bathroom door and screaming, "Heeeere's Johnny!'' Then with the wife terrorized, creepily saying, "Sandy, I'm home.''

That probably wouldn't do, so I threw caution to the nearest snowdrift, dug out the car and inched my way four miles to work out and blow off some pent-up energy. Mile after mile on a boring treadmill, a device of last resort. It was better than nothing.

Afterward, turning south on Harrison off 11th, I apparently hit the accelerator too hard. The Trailblazer blazed a 360-degree trail, doing a complete circle before stopping in the direction I intended to go.

There was one vehicle about 100 yards away where I could almost hear the words "you idiot'' seeping through his windshield.

Typical. As much as I've tried to get along with weather extremes, snow is still a four-letter word.

I like my snow in December around Christmas, and in the mountains, but if it's after Jan. 1 and it's in the Texas Panhandle, it's time to move on to spring.

Which never happens.

The worst snowstorm I ever drove in was from Canyon to Amarillo after a West Texas A&M basketball game. It took 45 minutes and I had to focus on the highway reflectors to make sure I didn't drive right off the E-Way.

That was on March 7, 1998, the weekend before spring break.

Snow is inevitable in this part of the world. So why not just accept it and look on the bright side?

I heard a prayer Sunday that extolled the snow's beauty and moisture and the variety that God provides. And I'm thinking, why can't I be like that?

The only thing I pray for regarding snow is safety and added patience to stifle the urge to strangle those around me. But I have tried to make snow my friend in various half-hearted ways.

The Mental Image Theory: Appreciate the quiet beauty of walking on snow, hearing the crunch-crunch under your boots, seeing your chilled breath, feeling the crisp cold on your cheeks, the snow on tree limbs. Works for a while, but eventually my toes get numb.

The White Rain Theory: Hey, it's moisture, and winter wheat needs it, not to mention the lawn. Then I read where it takes about 10 inches of snow to equal an inch of rain. Is it worth it? I'd rather have an inch of rain in 45-degree temperatures.

The Variety Theory: That we get to experience the seasons and variety, and not every day is the same monotonous weather day. That's true, but I get all the variety I want in December.

The Inner Child Theory: As a kid, snow was one of the best times of your life. Canceling school for snow was pure joy. Now you could spend the day having snowball fights, making snowmen, get pulled wildly by a car on a homemade sled (i.e., an old car hood), making a snow fort.

I've tried that, at various times going with my boys sledding at Medi-Park. Now they're too old to want the old man to hang with them in a crowd of kids, and if I went alone, I'd look like the Winter Wonderland Stalker.

The Remember Summer Theory: That's when we reflect on the July heat, of getting in a stifling hot car, sweat trickling down the small of your back while mowing the grass, and how you'd love a cold blast of air.

Maybe so, but all I know is churches don't open their doors for weary travelers with excessive sunburn. No one shovels humidity off the sidewalk and driveway.

I've yet to spend time scraping sunlight off the windshield and no car has skidded helplessly on a road riddled with a thick sheet of sunshine.

What is the most effective way to get through snow and winter with a stiff upper lip? Each morning puts us one day closer to summer.

Jon Mark Beilue's column appears Sunday, Wednesday and Friday. He can be reached at jon.beilue@amarillo.com or (806) 345-3318.